LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
Shortly after Gladys reached home after her visit to the Vicarage, a
young man with a serious expression somewhat out of keeping with his
jaunty walk, entered the gate of Pine Cottage, and came to an abrupt
halt.
"Well," he ejaculated, "this is a pretty place, and what's more--for
dozens of houses and gardens are pretty--it's artistic!" In front of
him stretched a miniature avenue of chestnut trees, which was rendered
striking, even to the most casual observer, probably, not only on
account of the irregular mounds of moss-covered stones that occupied
its intervening spaces, but also, by reason of the masses of wild
flowers (great clumps of which were springing up in the crevices of
this impromptu wall) that lent to it an appearance half negligent, but
wholly and entrancingly picturesque. Here, undoubtedly, was art. That
did not astonish the young man. All avenues, in the ordinary sense,
are works of art; and the mere excess of art he saw manifested did not
surprise him; it was the character of the art that had brought him to
a standstill and held him spellbound. And the longer he looked the
more he became convinced, that whoever had superintended the
arrangement of this scenery was an artist--an artist with a scrupulous
eye for form.
The greatest care had been taken to keep the balance between neatness
and gracefulness on the one hand and picturesqueness on the other.
There were few straight lines, and no long uninterrupted ones; whilst
at no one point of view did the same effect of curvature or colour
appear twice. Variety in uniformity was the keynote.
At last tearing himself away from this one spot--where he felt he
could have spent centuries--he turned to the right and then again to
the left--for the path had now become serpentine, and at no moment
could be traced for more than two or three paces in advance. Presently
the sound of water fell gently on his ear, and in the shadiest of
diminutive forests, amidst the interlacing branches of elm and beech,
he caught the glimpse of a fountain. For an instant the wild thought
of forcing his way through it, of plunging his burning forehead in its
cooling spray, well-nigh mastered him. But his better sense conquered,
and he kept to the path. Another turn, and he caught his first glimpse
of a chimney; another--and the summit of a gable showed above the
trees. The sun, which had been hitherto obscured, now came out, and
suddenly--as if by the hand of magic--the whole scene was a brilliant
blaze of colour. He had arrived at the end of the avenue, where the
path forked; one branch turning sharply round in the direction of a
side entrance to the house, whilst the other led with a gentle
curvature to the front.
Facing the building was a broad expanse of velvety turf, relieved
occasionally, here and there, by such showy shrubs as the hydrangea,
rhododendron, or lilac; but more frequently, and at closer intervals,
by clumps of geraniums, or roses--roses of every variety. There was
nothing pretentious in the garden, any more than there was in the
adjoining edifice. Its unusually pleasing effect lay altogether in its
artistic arrangement; and one could hardly help imagining that the
whole scene had, in reality, been called into existence by the brush
of some eminent landscape painter.
The cottage itself was constructed of old-fashioned Dutch
shingles--broad and with rounded corners--and painted a dull grey; a
tint which, when contrasted with the vivid green of the tulip trees
that overshadowed the entrance to the house, and reared themselves
high above it on either side, afforded an artistic happiness perfectly
intoxicating to its present visitor. The architecture of the cottage
was--if not Early Tudor--something equally pleasing. Its roofs were
divided into many gables; its windows were diamond paned and
projecting, whilst oaken beams ran latitudinally and vertically over
its grey shingle front. Encompassing the whole base of the exterior
were masses of flowers--pinks, carnations, heliotrope, pansies,
poppies, lilies, wallflowers, roses and jasmines; and besides the
latter several other creepers had been planted beneath the walls, but
had not yet attained to any height.
Shiel Davenport, for it was he, could not resist the temptation of
peeping in at the windows; and he saw that the interior of the cottage
was artistry and simplicity itself. At the windows, curtains of heavy
white jaconet muslin, not too full, hung in sharp parallel plaits to
the floor--just to the floor. The walls were papered with French
papers of rare delicacy--to match the seasons; (spring, summer, autumn
and winter were all most effectively depicted), and the furniture
though light, was at the same time costly. And here again was the same
effect of arrangement--an arrangement obviously designed by the same
brain that had planned the building and grounds. Shiel could not
conceive anything more graceful. Flowers--flowers of every hue and
odour were the chief decoration of the cottage. On almost every table
were vases--in themselves beautiful enough--yet filled to overflowing
with the finest roses. Ox-eye daisies, hollyhocks and forget-me-nots
clustered about the open windows. And every puff of wind, every breath
of air transmitted scent--the most delicious medley of scent
imaginable.
The young man drew in deep draughts of it; he threw back his head,
and, opening his mouth, revelled in the joy of feeling it steal softly
down his throat and permeate his lungs. He was thus engaged when the
sound of a voice brought him sharply back to earth.
In the open doorway of the house, an amused expression in her violet
eyes, stood a girl--so wondrously pretty, that at the sight of her
Shiel was again overcome, and could only gaze in helpless admiration.
"Do you want to see my father?" she inquired. "He is getting ready to
go out, but I daresay he will see you first."
"I--I am sure he will," the young man replied, "I'm Shiel Davenport.
I've come to tell him my uncle died at four o'clock this morning."
"Oh, dear!" the girl exclaimed, "I am so sorry--sorry for you, and for
my father. I'm sure he will be terribly upset. I'm Gladys Martin,
perhaps you've heard of me--I knew your uncle."
"Often," Shiel said, "And I think my uncle's description of you an
excellent one."
"His description of me!"
"Yes! he always spoke of you as the Queen of Flowers, and said you had
a mania for all things beautiful, which was not surprising, seeing how
beautiful you were yourself."
"That was very nice of him," Gladys said, looking amused again. "Won't
you come in? If you will wait here"--she led him to the
drawing-room--"I'll tell my father."
She disappeared, and Shiel heard her run lightly up the stairs.
"By Jove," he said to himself, "she's the loveliest girl I've ever
seen. From being so much among flowers, she has become one herself.
Violets, roses, and heliotrope have all had a share in her creation!
What eyes, what a mouth! what teeth! what hands! Surely I have found
here, not only the perfection of all things beautiful, but the
perfection of all things natural, the perfection of natural grace in
contradistinction from artificial grace. Moreover, she is a
romanticist. There is an expression of romance, of unworldliness, in
those deep-set eyes of hers, that sinks into my heart of hearts.
'Romance' and 'womanliness,' and the two terms appear to me to be
convertible, are her distinguishing features. She is an artist, an
idealist, and, over and above all--a woman! Hang it! I'm in love with
her!"
More he could not evolve, for his meditations were abruptly cut short
by the entrance of a servant, who ushered him, straightway, into the
presence of John Martin.
The latter, though visibly affected by the news of his friend's death,
was a man of the world, and, consequently, came to business at once.
Much had to be discussed--arrangements for the funeral, the
examination of correspondence relative to the firm, and plans for the
immediate future.
"You don't know how my uncle's affairs stand, I suppose?" Shiel asked
somewhat nervously.
"Yes," John Martin said, "I do. May I ask if you have any private
means at all--or are you solely dependent on what you earn? By the
way, what is your calling?"
"I am an artist," Shiel said. "No, I've nothing beyond what my uncle
was good enough to allow me."
"An artist!" John Martin murmured, "how like Dick! Have you
entertained the idea of inheriting a fortune? Have you any reason to
suppose that your uncle was well off and had made you his heir!"
"I gathered so, sir, from the manner in which he lived and his
attitude towards me."
"Well! we won't talk it over now--leave it till after the funeral. Are
you bent on continuing painting? There is very little remuneration in
it, is there?"
"Not much," Shiel answered gloomily, "but I shouldn't care to give it
up--unless of course it is absolutely necessary for me to do so."
"Being an artist you wouldn't be much good in business."
"None!"
"At all events, you are candid. Well! I don't see any good in our
dallying here--I had best go back with you to Sydenham. I've got a
letter to write first, but I shan't be long."
He was long enough, however, for Shiel to have another chat with
Gladys. "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked him. "I had such a queer
one last night, about trees and flowers; and, oddly enough, my father
also dreamed of trees and flowers, and of the very same ones too. I am
going into Town to-day to consult a firm that has just set up, called
the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd. They profess to interpret dreams, and
I am anxious to see whether they can."
"In Cockspur Street, aren't they?" Shiel asked. "I saw their
advertisement in one of the papers. I presume you are not going there
alone?"
"No!" Gladys laughed, "I shall go with a friend, though I often do go
into Town alone. I can assure you I am quite capable of looking after
myself. In that respect, at least, I am quite up to date. Probably you
are more accustomed to French girls?"
"Yes! I have spent most of my life in Paris," Shiel said. "But how
could you tell that?"
"Oh! I guessed you were an artist--and had probably spent some time in
Paris"--Gladys rejoined, "by the way you looked at the house and
garden. I could read appreciation in your eyes and gesture; such
appreciation, as I knew, could only come from an artist. G.W. Barnett
helped me in planning this cottage and the garden."
"What! Barnett the landscape painter! I am a great admirer of his
work. Were you a pupil of his?"
"Yes, he was one of the visiting R.A.'s at the Beechcroft Studio in St.
John's Wood, where I worked for three years. We were then living in
Blackheath--St. John's Park--a hateful place. Mr. Barnett was awfully
good, when I told him we were moving, and that I wanted to live in
really artistic surroundings--he suggested that I should be my own
architect, and promised to do everything he could to assist me,"
"And your father hadn't a say in the matter," Shiel commented, with an
amused smile.
"Not in that," Gladys said complacently, "though there are one or two
things in which he has a very decided say. Father can be very
self-willed and obstinate, when he likes. But as I was remarking when
you interrupted me--"
"I beg pardon!" Shiel murmured.
"Mr. Barnett promised to assist me. He came over here with me, and we
chose this site."
"Is he an old man?" Shiel inquired, a trifle anxiously.
"Not much more than middle aged--fifty perhaps!" Gladys said, "though
he looks much younger. He is still very good-looking. Well! he came
over here--we chose this site, and--"
"Is he married?"
"No! Really you seem very interested in him. Perhaps you will meet him
some day: he comes here a good deal. As I was saying, we chose the
site together, and he supervized the plans I drew up for the garden
and cottage; I don't think, perhaps, I should have thought of that
avenue if it hadn't been for him!"
"At all events it does you both credit," Shiel remarked, "for a more
charming house and garden I have never seen. I should like to live
here all my life. I should like--" but he was interrupted by John
Martin. "Come, it's time we were off," the latter called out
brusquely, "time and trains wait for no man!"
"A young ass!" John Martin whispered in Gladys' ear, as the trio
passed through the entrance of the railway station on to the platform,
"not a bit of good to me. Don't encourage him, whatever you do!"
"Encourage him!" Gladys retorted indignantly, seeing that Shiel, who
had his ticket to get, was out of hearing. "Do I encourage any one?
All the same," she added defiantly, "I rather like him. It isn't every
one's good fortune to be as smart as you, John Martin. Quick--hurry
up! That's your train--and the guard's about to blow his whistle."
With a vigorous push she hustled her father into the first compartment
they came to, and Shiel sprang in after him as the train moved out of
the station.
An hour later Gladys, looking extremely demure and proper, was rapping
with a daintily gloved hand at the inquiry office in the great stone
lobby of the Modern Sorcery Company's building in Cockspur Street.
"Have you an appointment, madam?" the commissionaire, in a bright blue
uniform, asked.
"No," Gladys replied. "Is it necessary?
"The firm are unusually busy," the man explained, "and unless you have
made an appointment with them some days beforehand, it is doubtful
whether they will be able to see you. However, if you will step into
the waiting room and fill in one of the forms you see on the table, I
will take it to them. Which member of the firm have you come to
consult?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," Gladys said. "I want to have a dream
interpreted."
"Then, that will be Mr. Kelson," the man observed "he does all that
kind of thing--tells dreams, characters, pasts, and reads thoughts.
Mr. Curtis solves all manner of puzzles and tricks; and Mr. Hamar
divines the presence of metals and water. There is a lady in the
waiting-room now, come to have a dream interpreted. She's been there
nearly an hour. This way, madam!"--and he escorted, rather than
ushered, Gladys into a large, elaborately furnished room, in which a
dozen or so well dressed people--of both sexes--were waiting, looking
over the leaves of magazines and journals, and trying in vain to hide
their only too obvious excitement.
Having filled in the necessary form, and given it to the
commissionaire, Gladys looked round for a seat, and espying one, next
to a strikingly handsome girl, she at once appropriated it.
There was something about this showy girl that had attracted Gladys.
She was one of those rare people that have a personality, and although
this was a personality that Gladys was not at all sure she liked,
nevertheless she felt anxious to become more closely acquainted with
it. Both girls suddenly realized that they were staring hard at one
another. The girl with the personality was the first to speak. With a
smile that, while revealing a perfect set of white teeth, at the some
time revealed exceedingly thin lips, she remarked, "It's most
wearisome work waiting. I've been here nearly an hour. I shouldn't
stay any longer, only I've come from a distance. London is so hot and
stuffy, I detest it."
"Do you?" Gladys observed. "I don't. I find it so full of human
interest--indeed, of every kind of interest. Not that I should care to
live in it, but I like being near enough to come up several times a
week. I live at Kew."
"Then you're lucky!" the girl said, "I'd live at Kew if I could. But I
can't--I'm one of those unfortunate creatures who have to earn their
living."
"I sometimes wish I had to," Gladys remarked.
"Do you! Then you don't know much about it. It isn't all jam by a long
way. I loathe work. I've been spending my holiday at Kew. I've just
come from there."
"Are you by any chance Miss Rosenberg?" Gladys asked.
"That's my name," the girl replied with a look of astonishment. "How
do you know?"
Gladys explained. "I've just been to the Vicarage," she said, "and
Mrs. Sprat has told me about the verses. Did you really dream them?"
"Of course! I shouldn't have said so if I hadn't," Miss Rosenberg
replied angrily. "I don't tell crams. Besides, I've never composed a
line of poetry in my life. The verses were repeated to me in my sleep
by some occult agency--of that I am quite certain. They were so
vividly impressed on my mind that I had no difficulty at all in
remembering them--every one of them, and I got up and wrote them down.
Of course they must mean something."
Gladys was about to make some observation, when the commissionaire,
opening the door of the room, called out, "Miss Rosenberg;" whereupon,
with a sigh of relief, Miss Rosenberg took her departure.